


Above The Dark Abyss

by Callophilia



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood tw chapter 8, Demons, F/M, Haunting, I’m letting the story do what it wants, Plot With Porn, Reader/Dante, adding tags as I go, blood tw, eventually, of course, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-06-28 08:41:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19808725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callophilia/pseuds/Callophilia
Summary: There’s something about this place.There’s something about the walls, the floor, the furniture.There’s something about the man with the whitest hair and bluest eyes.There’s something about what is below...





	1. Bridges of light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All houses wherein men have lived and died are haunted houses - Haunted Houses by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Dragging your overnight suitcase behind you, a weekend bag slung over your shoulder as well as a cat carrier in hand, from which curious mewls were coming from, you stepped through the door to your new home You were already cataloguing the huge list of things that needed to be done inside the place as you set your bags on the floor.

Obviously it had been abandoned by the previous owner by the state that it had been left in. There were cobwebs all around the ceiling, and clinging to the sparse furniture. You hoped the hot water ran from taps you were sure would leak stagnant rusted brown water for the first half hour of being turned on.

Sunbeams were lazy bridges of light that filtered lazily through windows that had a frosting to them as well as a good layer of dirt and dust on both sides. You gave a small hum of appreciation at the look of the floorboards, nice and even with a finish that would come up lovely once the dirt has been swept away.

There was a feeling in the room, you’d put it down to excitement if you didn’t have that strange feeling of electricity and danger dancing along the skin of your arms that set your hair standing. By the sounds coming from the carrier you assumed Iris was having the same impressions as you. You set the carrier down and opened the door, and out she strutted as if she already owned the place. She was beautiful, pure black with striking blue eyes which stood out when you first met her, and so you’d given her the name Iris.

“This could be great Iris, all this space...” You knew the location wasn’t the best place, but you could set up a good size studio in the downstairs open area, even sell art from here. You only hoped the neighbours were friendly, and weren’t the main reason for the marked down price. The estate agent would have had to have said if there were noise problems, right?

The desk that was left behind by the previous owner looked sturdy,made of thick wood, with gouges and nicks spread across, it was full of character so it could stay for sure. There were odd pieces spread across the room, and the artist in you couldn’t wait to have a nosey, though the sensible side was disgusted by the layers of dust and spiderwebs.

“No, it will be great actually. Maybe I should get rid of the sign outside first, so no one mistakes it for the old place.” You nodded to yourself and hoped the previous owner had left a set of ladders behind. 

“I wonder what kind of a shop Devil May Cry used to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that ending was a surprise! So I’ve never written anything without a full plot in mind, and though I have some idea what this could be about it’s completely without a full form which is quite fun? Let me know what you think!


	2. Trespasser

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “In your emptying house, others  
> roll up rugs, pack books,  
> drink coffee at your antique table,  
> and listen to messages left  
> on a machine haunted“
> 
> The Answering Machine - Linda Pastan

When it snows, and a thick blanket of white covers the ground, and parked cars, and rooftops, and weighs down the branches of dark green trees, there’s a silence like no other. It’s as though the world is covered in a downy duvet, silent and sleeping.

The silence in your new home, you found, was similar but not the same. This was a smothering blanket, the air was still and dust particles hung in the air in shafts of light as though time stood still.

And then you would breathe, and there would be sound that killed the silence, and time would step on with dust swaying and dancing to the ground.

And there was a lot of dust. You were cleaning up a storm.

Iris had taken refuge on one of the steps of the sturdy wooden stairs to look down on you as you cleaned, 

You liked the place, sort of. You and your new home would have to mould around each other that was for sure. The first hour you had spent there was making sure that the taps ran clear, and the toilet flushed.

As you walked around, checking in rooms to find which one you preferred to be your bedroom, you opened the door to one of the front facing rooms and the sensation hit you like a freight train.

You shouldn’t be here.

This room belonged to Someone.

The bedsheets were mussed, as though slept in and rolled out of that morning. The closet door was open just an inch, the sleeve of a black shirt caught in the door. There was a pair of jogging bottoms half on and half off the bed, as though they’d been discarded in a rushed morning routine.

You’d think someone had left the room this morning if it weren’t for the layer of dust.

But the smell, the smell of the room said nothing of unopened windows and the passing of time: No stale stench hung in the air. Masculine was the only way you could describe it, musky in a pleasant way, clean enough but a sweetness that was maybe sandalwood. It got more intense in an instant.

An odd feeling wrapped around your heart like vines slowly twisting and ensnaring, you felt like a trespasser, about to be caught. Shamed and tossed out.

You shut the door. The tension left your body immediately and you breathed a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding.

You decided to clean that room last, and tackled the main area downstairs first. A base of operations.

“I hope this still works, or maybe I could get someone in to fix it, these colours are gorgeous.” You ran a damp cloth over the smooth arch of the jukebox in the corner. There were still multiple vinyls inside waiting to be played and it only added more to the mystery of what kind of place Devil May Cry was and where the owner went in such a rush... Unless they’d died?

A creak on the stair followed by a yowl from your cat had you turning around quickly with a gasp.

But there was no one there.

Iris bounded down the stairs and in to the kitchen just off the main room and your heart pounded in your chest as you were left alone in a room that didn’t feel empty save for you.

The stairs wouldn’t creak under Iris’ weight, but... maybe they did.

You forced a breath out and shook your head, turning to continue cleaning the jukebox though everything inside of you screamed not to turn your back on the stairs. The old turnstile phone on the desk started to ring. You frowned, not realising the phone was still active, ignoring the trepidation that filled you at the sound, and adding it to the list of many things you would have to do.

You wiped your hands on your old tshirt you’d worn specifically for moving day, and picked up the handset.

“Hello?” It was a bad signal, a mix of static and what sounded like howling wind in the background, “hello?”

You had pulled the phone away from your ear to hang up when you heard it. The sound of someone struggling, breath hitching, and not in a lewd way, as they tried to speak. They sounded in pain. You listened silently, feeling your face pale until finally you opened your mouth (to say what you didn’t even know). At your breath the phone cut to dial tone, and you felt relief flow through your veins and warmth finally settle on skin you hadn’t realised was chilled.

It would be later on, when you got around to cleaning the desk with locked drawers that you realised that the phone wasn’t plugged in at all.

You did your best to convince yourself that you’d unplugged it at some point.

You didn’t do very well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante is coming soon, I promise. I do hate having so much descriptive text and little to no dialogue, but a good haunting to me is full of suspenseful silence.
> 
> Thank you for the kudos and review on the first chap


	3. Antigonish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Yesterday, upon the stair,  
> I met a man who wasn't there!  
> He wasn't there again today,  
> Oh how I wish he'd go away!"
> 
> Antigonish - William Hughes Mearns

Night had come quickly, after that phone call. You’d been happy to find that the majority of the lights in your new place worked. The fan on the ceiling spun slowly and clicked every other rotation for some reason. It was nice to have a sound in the silence, and it was silent even outside because surprisingly this was a quiet neighbourhood. The occasional car passed by, low rumbling reaching you before the car did, headlights sending shadows gliding across the back wall.

The juke box did work.

It was quiet, and had a tinniness to it that told you the speakers weren’t quite connected but you could work with that, unafraid to dig in and fiddle with the workings of it youself.

As you’d taken the dust off with a rag you’d ignored the feeling of thickness in the air that had persisted after the creaking step which scared Iris away and in to the kitchen where she meowed quite loudly for a time.

You were grateful for her noise, and when the jukebox played its quiet music it helped clean away the oppressive air of the place.

The dirty water in the bucket sloshed as you threw the dirty rag in, it was browned and the froth of cleaning product had faded away. You noticed a door under the staircase and made a beeline for it, hoping there were more cleaning supplies you could use inside. Swinging the door open, expecting a small closet, you were surprised to find cold, cold air breezed out and around you, pulling stray threads of your hair in towards the dark abyss of the basement. It felt open, like a void, cavernous almost.

You pulled out your phone, switching the flashlight on and swept it across the darkness, noting the stairs descending downward and the light switch to the left of the door frame. An experimental flick back and forth lit no lights down there.

“And I won’t be dealing with you for a while.”

You swung the door shut, the cold wind pulling it shut the rest of the way, resulting in a louder click than you intended.

Leaving your cleaning supplies downstairs you picked up your weekend bag, and slung it over your shoulder to head up stairs to sort out your bed for the evening.

There was a feeling again. That feeling of being watched, the one that crept along the back of your neck, rising hairs and setting skin to goosebumps. Every instinct inside of you told you someone was on the stairs, looking down on you from the second floor. You heart raced as you braced a foot on the bottom step and pushed yourself up, hand holding firm to the railing. 

You step back resolve melting as you look up in to the darkness of upstairs and feel that eyes are looking back at you. 

There’s no shame in taking the couch for the night, it is in the cleanest part of the house after all, and you don’t want to spend the next hour fussing and cleaning before bed.

So, instead, you ready for bed and settle on the worn cushions of the sofa and find it’s actually quite comfortable. The soft pads of Iris’ feet come from the kitchen and she jumps up on to your lap, the thin grey sheet you’d pulled out of your bag would be warm enough for the tepid summer nights the city was experiencing.. At least you knew the basement would be a cool retreat when summer heat really kicked in. 

After an hour of tapping away on your phone you curl up on your side to sleep, facing the open room, and the purring coming from your lap is the white noise you need that pushes you finally in to a deep sleep.

You’re dreaming. You know that for sure as you lay with detachment and that soft warm comfort of sleep still fogs you. You don’t move though your eyes wander around the room. It’s darker now, as though there are no streetlights. The room is lit by the moon, cold and white-blue.

The white stencils of light from the tall windows stretch across the wooden floor all the way to the desk where a figure sits.

He’s watching you.

You can’t see his eyes but you feel his gaze on you, and you’re sure he knows you’re watching him too.

You’re not scared.

His booted feet are on the desk, body angled towards you, His features aren’t the clearest but you can easily see he has white hair, snow-like in the moon light.

He isn’t old though. His form is tall and shoulders are broad, his eyes glitter in the dark and they hold no malice. They just watch, silently.

The creak of a door opening sounds from behind you and you turn in time to see the basement door slowly swing open. The air in the room leeches out and turns cold as the darkness eats away at the warmth. You breathe out a shuddering breath that turns to vapour, your cheeks and nose chill quickly.

You realise you’ve stood, feet taking you towards the rectangle of pitch black without you even realising.

There’s a huff from behind you and a heavy hand lands on your shoulder, almost blazing hot in the cold. He passes in front of you, his broad back blocking your view of the basement, and he looks over his shoulder at you. His eyes are blue, like arctic ice, though they’re not cold at all. There’s a warmth and sadness in them all at once, and it makes you feel lonely for some reason.

“Probably best you stay out of there, babe.” Oh god his voice is smooth and deep and you hope you remember it when you wake up. There’s a noise from the basement, one that sounds like a wounded and angered creature, you peek around the man to see what it is when he grabs you around the waist and pulls you to his chest. “I don’t think you’re ready for the show yet.”

A glint catches your eye and he pulls out a gun from beneath his jacket. Your heart races as his arm extends and you hear the sound of wood being scratched under large nails that are scrambling for purchase.

The sound of a gunshot sets you upright with a bolt. The room is lit with early morning sunlight that falls on to the desk the white haired man had sat at.

You’re pretty sure you had left the chair tucked under the desk, so why isn’t it now?

Often your dreams are forgotten in the steam of your first cup of tea of the day, replaced with only impressions of feelings and abstract thoughts.

Not this one. You cradle the now empty and cold mug as you sit at the desk, eyes on the basement door. You can still feel the press of his arm against your back as he held you against his chest to stop you from seeing whatever had clawed its way up from below.

You’re not one to have a solid opinion on these sorts of things. For every nay sayer of ghosts and the supernatural there’s always someone to insist they had an encounter of some kind. You go to sip at tea, lost in thought and not realising it’s empty until the cold of the mug touches your lips. You don’t want to admit to yourself the dream left you spooked, and you’re a little intimidated by the black hole that is the basement and the thought of whatever it was that was down there. Not to mention the strange feelings this place gives you, its rooms with the sensation of being watched and of intruding.

You force yourself to have a normal day, ignoring the feelings of being watched, chalking the goosebumps you get down to the breeze that blows through the opened windows which you secretly hope will blow cobwebs and spirits alike away. The moving van comes with the small amount of furniture you had from your old apartment and you set your bed up in one of the back bedrooms, completely ignoring the front bedroom each time you pass it and the primal feeling that someone is behind the door, pacing and waiting.

Eventually the day does become normal: Iris gets out of the house, and you have to coax her back in with biccies. You chug orange juice thirstily as sweat darkens your clothes, nearly choking when you over tip the carton and it spills past your lips. Murmuring to yourself as you’re picking off the olives that were on the pizza you ordered from the local place that had a leaflet tacked up in the kitchen.

A normal day with a nice breeze that blows away the lingering feelings of fear from the dream last night, and the fear of the basement. The sun is starting to set when you grab the large flashlight you own from one of the boxes you’d put in the kitchen, opening the basement door and stepping through with nonchalance. You prop open the door, hoping extra light comes in and lights the dark but only your sweeping beam of light touches the basement, and the darkness eats the white light quickly. 

There’s something on the floor, as you tenuously make your way down creaking wooden steps. The air smells strange, lukewarm and musty and of mould. The bannister under your hand is rough and chipped in places, you hiss as a splinter catches in your hand, and you cradle it to your chest.

The light shines on the dark floor strangely and when you put your foot on what appears to be the last step you swear loudly when it splashes in to still and stagnant water that flows over the sides of your shoe and around your ankle.

“Are you kidding me?” Ripples flow from where your foot had splashed haphazardly in to the dark water, white light reflected back on small rolls of black smooth liquid that make lapping noises here and there against filing cabinets that you can see against the walls.

“Are you down there Miss?”

You turn with a start, before you recognise the voice of one of the movers from earlier in the day. “Uh, yea just a sec.” You make your way up the steps and when you come out in to the light the mover looks you up and down, noting your soaked leg and squelching shoe.

“Having problems?” You’re grateful that, when you explain to him that the basement is flooded, he takes a quick look, with a flashlight he takes from the pocket of his high-vis jacket and returns back up the stairs quickly.

“Looks like this has been rising for a little while. See how there’s no markings on the wall? If it had been sat there for a while it would have gone down a little and left markings, but this looks like it’s rising bit by bit. You’ll want to get someone to have a look at this, and soon.”

You nod and bite your lip, while you’d known this place was a little fixer-upper, having seen the photos only on the bidding site, you’d not anticipated the auctioneers leaving this bit of information out of the listing. 

“Thanks for looking, that’s good to know, I’ll call someone as soon as I can.” 

“Best to sort these things before they become real problems, can end up a right devil to fix a burst pipe if it’s left too long. Probably under the cement and seeping up through a gap in the concrete.” Then there was a moment of awkward silence where he looked at you expectantly and you looked at him expectantly. “So where’s the keys?” 

“I’m sorry?”

“You sent a text saying someone had left some keys behind and something about a show” You pat your jean pockets looking for your phone before remembering you’d left it on the desk at one point. The mover is watching you with an eyebrow raised. 

“Oh! Right, I meant to send those to someone else! ” You lied through your teeth, glad that the redness on your cheeks would be mistook as embarrassment, “I’m so sorry you came back out.”

He’s a genuinely nice guy, and says it’s no problem since they’d stopped at a nice diner nearby after leaving yours. 

As soon as he’s gone you dart over to your phone and pull up the text messages.

MOVING GUYS

(Hey can you come back? You’ve left some keys here)>

(I told you you weren’t ready for the show babe)>

<(Thanks for letting me know, on our way)

You take a deep breath and accept that feeling of being watched never really went away throughout the day, that there’s something about this house, and that there’s something about that blue eyed man from your dream.

And you’re going to find out what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dante is here finally! And reader is talking to a human rather than to herself/the cat!
> 
> So I post these without going back over them, I try and catch errors as I go but if I went back and checked these would never get posted because I would tweak everything and second guess it too, I’m trying to let the plot happen. If you see any errors or anything please let me know. Also I don’t know shit about plumbing and flooding basements.


	4. Water Of The Covenant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My spectre around me night and day  
> Like a wild beast guards my way.  
> My emanation far within  
> Weeps incessantly for my sin. 
> 
> My Spectre Around Me by William Blake

For the short remainder of the day you avoid the downstairs main room. After checking the messages on your phone you had roughly pushed the chair under the desk with a huff, “I refuse to be scared and spooked in my own home.” The words said aloud confirm really how much you believe you’re not alone.

Whenever you pass by the basement door to take something upstairs or bring something through to the kitchen your eyes dart to the door in anticipation and the temptation to go down there just to prove to yourself this irrational fear is just that: Irrational.

There is no ghost, there is no presence, and there is nothing wrong with the basement aside from it being too wet.

Your bed is upstairs, as are your belongings, as well as your cat, Iris, since that’s where your bed is. You push up the stairs leaving the room behind you in darkness, breaking in to a rush part way up at the feeling of something about to grab your feet from within the darkness: That same childhood fear now rearing its head in the wake of the strange happenings.

Turning at the top of the yellow lit stairs you stop and look down in to the darkness, the stairs seeming to descend eternally since there’s no end of them visible. 

Stare in to the void, and the void stares back. 

There’s that feeling of being watched again. Your hand tightens on the banister as you watch silently, simultaneously daring the darkness to move while pleading that it doesn’t. A car drives by outside, the lights scattering squares of yellowed light across the floor through the windows, and there’s nothing down there but dust long-settled for the day.

Iris chirps from your chosen bedroom, the largest room which sits across from the dreaded front bedroom, the bedroom that you now realise you’ve been calling “His” in your mind.

Looking at the shut door you wait a moment, listening, and hear nothing. You put a hand on the door handle, the metal surprisingly cold under your skin considering the warmth of the night. You don’t know what you expect to happen, but nothing does.

Turing off the corridor light you hurry in to your bedroom and feel a piece of your old home has forced itself in to this place, jammed in like a puzzle piece in the wrong section but it still fits in to place somehow.

Books with bent edges and pages yellowed with age and love sit on a bookshelf in a corner, your amber light softly glowing next to the bed to help with sleep triggers your mind to start to ready for bed. Your pyjamas are stuffed partly under one of the multiple pillows on your bed with bedsheets that are soft and comforting spread across the bed. Iris sits on top of the pyjamas, and you gently pull them out from under her as you give her scratches on top of her little head.

Idly you tap away on your phone before bed, every now and then switching from social media to quickly search about basement flooding (call a plumber), possible dream meanings from last night (you’re repressing emotions), and feeling like you’re being watched in an empty home (this one came back with a variety of answers so you gave up quickly when you realised there was no simple solution).

The comforting smell of your sheets is relaxing, and it’s as though you’re back in your old apartment and there’s nothing strange going on except the constant smell of weed coming from the apartment next door along with the sounds of Kitchen Nightmares (also constant).

You’re lulled further in to sleep, barely conscious now, by the sounds of the ticking clock on your nightstand, the light breaths of Iris at the bottom of the bed, and the surprisingly comforting sound of the house settling, wood creaking in to place after a warm day that shifts to a cooler night.

A sudden harsh noise jolts you out of the darkness of your mind and in to the darkness of your closed eyes.

You can’t open your eyes.

Something woke you.

The low moaning hiss of Iris. And it continues on as wood creaks distantly.

Still your eyes won’t open, you can’t move at all, all you can do is listen and feel the room get colder as the temperature drops and drops. Your own heartbeat can’t cover the sound of tapping, dull and heavy, of something coming up the stairs. Something that sounds like it has thick claws, something that you dreamed of last night.

You swallow, your breaths coming fast and short through your nose, your jaws sealed shut by the paralysis that claimed your body from you. Iris’ hiss is near constant now, rising in pitch and you feel her shifting until she’s small on your lap. She’s scared.

By god, so are you.

Whatever It is, is upstairs now, only 10 feet away from your bedroom. There are breaths that sound like a death rattle, rumbling in a chest that hasn’t been used in years.

Wetness touches against your ears and you don’t care that you’re crying and the tears are rolling down the side of your face. Willing your body to move doesn’t work, it’s like someone cut you off from everything that you are besides a consciousness, and you feel so vulnerable and scared that your breath hitches as you start to cry in earnest.

There’s the sound of a click of a door, but not yours. 

His door.

The sound of steps, booted feet you will clearly imagine in the morning but not now as you’re too wrapped up in absolute terror, step out of the room, past your doors to meet the thing that had come from the basement. 

Thuds rock your wall, trinkets rattle and frames clatter back, as something connects over and over. Something being hit, the sound of the creature growling and spluttering wetly makes you sure to hope it’s losing the fight. It continues for what feels like forever until silence falls again.

You still can’t move, and you’re still crying, The tears are warm on skin that had cooled in the frigid air.

The door to your bedroom creaks open as your breathing picks up, fear filling you to the brim and overflowing as you’re still trapped inside yourself and in the dark.

“Breathe. Just breathe.” His footsteps approach you from the door and you think you can hear something along the lines of concern. Your arms lay limply at your sides and you feel strange as his warm form sits on your bed. 

The bed doesn’t dip at all.

It should do, because you remember him as being built.

“Slowly, slower, just breathe.” He seems to not know what do do as you feel him fidget for a moment, before taking your hand in his. He gives a squeeze and you can’t squeeze back but it reassures you.

“That’s it, like that.” A thumb, rough and worn rubs along the back of your hand, “You’re doing great, babe. Try opening your eyes for me.”

The morning sunlight fills your vision, the room orange in the rising sun. You feel like a wreck.

You know what sleep paralysis is. You know it conjures demons. The crust Iines on your face are a testament to the tears you’d cried, so at least that was real. You sit up and look towards your open bedroom door, and across from it, bathed in the same orange light of the morning, is His room with its door wide open.

You can only sit and cry at that.

\---

Getting out of the house is good for you. With the front door locked shut you felt as though the place was its own little bubble of strangeness. Pulling away from the curb in your car with inane radio ads on, you feel everything is normal. There’s no pushing it to the back of your mind though. Distance helps put your thoughts in to perspective though and you mediate as you go about your necessary shopping and chores.

Of all the cities you’ve lived in this one is your favourite. The stores are niche, not chain stores like the capitol where you’d lived for a good chunk of time. There are nick-nack shops, antique stores, and psychic reading’s available next to laundrettes, corner shops, and pharmacies. 

People pass by in no hurry due to the climbing heat of the midday sun, the iced tea you’d bought as you went from shop to shop cools with the satisfying taste of sweet peach and bitter leaves. You idle outside the pharmacy, toying with the idea of sleeping tablets.

The harsh sun and warmth of the day had chased away lingering dreams and monsters and icy blue eyes and you felt silly for crying that morning. Silly for considering there was a puzzle in all the mess to solve when it was just stress from moving and being in a new place.

Side eyeing the illustrated sign advertising palm readings, tarot cards, and clairvoyance you down the rest of the drink, stepping in to the air conditioned pharmacy and buying sleeping tablets, enough for a week.

That night you take the small chalky white pill with water, and sleep peacefully and unbothered.

\---

A week of peace is exactly what you need to get on with moving in. The priority of setting up your downstairs studio to work on paintings in one corner and have a living area in the rest takes up a good half of the week. The kithcen takes up the rest, grime cleaned away and the old oven sparkling clean thanks to a litany of chemical attacks on it that sent you coughing and spluttering outside for air.

There will be time, you think, to address Hi- The front room... And the basement. 

In all the chaos of fixing up the house to be liveable you forgot about the sleeping tablets running out, and when you go to take one and find none left you feel confident you don’t need any.

The feeling of being watched had ebbed away with every good night of sleep, fear of closing your eyes at day’s end had been left in the past after the third night of peaceful slumber.

The small air conditioner you had dripped methodically as you laid in bed and it followed you in to your dream.

The drip drip drip echoed in the strange world you had woken up in. It was your own house but silent save for the sound of water drip drip dripping as though you were in a damp cave. Sitting up in bed you see water glistening on the floor of your bedroom. It doesn’t alarm you as you’re wrapped up in that disconnected feeling that goes hand in hand with most dreams.

The room is quite pretty, bathed in the blue white reflections of light from the water. The small rug you have at the side of your bed floats and bobs up and down beside your legs as you slip your bare feet in to the cold water. It reaches mid shin and though the water is dark you can still see your feet on the floorboards, warped by the lapping of the water.

You walk out of your bedroom, feet pulling through the water with muted but still echoing splashing sounds. 

His door is closed, and water continues along the hallway right to the stairs where there’s the sound of running water. At the top you look down and lose yourself in a Escher like moment as the water runs both up and down the wooden steps and over the side. The pull and push of the water tickles your toes as you descend. A canvas floats by, soaked and darkened by the inky water, you absently push it away when it knocks at your knee. While the room is dark, like the water, you can still see clearly, enough to see the door of the basement swaying in the to-and-fro of the water lapping against it.

Wading through the water is easy and you go slowly down the basement stairs in to the seeable darkness, pushed and pulled along by the flowing water along the stairs. The air tastes odd on your tongue, cold and thick like mausoleum air. you think.

He’s there in the centre of the room. On the last step you find the basement is only flooded to the ankles still and you tread lightly over to his form.

It’s like he’s sleeping. his red coat floats a little, though bound by his form as he lies on his back. The water kisses at the hollow of his cheeks, pale and deathly in your night vision, his eyes closed to the quiet of the world and you find you miss sight of his pale blue eyes after a week of dreamless sleep.

You place a hand on his chest, too intimate if he were awake but he sleeps on, oblivious to you. This close it’s easy to see the line of his nose, smooth and thin, the same as his jaw. Your other hand soothes across his forehead, moving ice-white hair from in front of his eyes to find lashes surprisingly dark. He’s not just handsome, you think, he’s pretty too. But where ever you touch there is a worrying frigidity to his skin.

“You’re cold.” The words don’t echo, too real in this space, they fall heavy like weights and die when spoken. Where you hand rests on his chest you can feel it seeping away at your warmth, which the water hadn’t touched even with its fresh chill. “You need to be warm.”

You curl against his side slowly, water sloshing gently as you move, between his arm and chest, hand splayed over his heart where you feel chill creep up your arm. “You’ll be ok,” you sigh, “I won’t leave you alone again... You’ll be ok,” you don’t know why you say the words but they slip out in to the air softly. 

The dripping and flowing water is muted in the cotton-air of the basement. Water sways against your body, rocking it gently as you fall out of the dream and in to darkness. The last thing that stays with you is the chest under your hand, rising and falling, slow and shallow.

You wake the next morning feeling sickly and flushed with some sort of virus. You blame the damp that lingers on your skin and clothes on the fever you must have had in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a good idea of where this is going, just not the hows but I do know most of the why’s. I hope it’s not too abstract, and I know it’s not dialogue driven at all which is difficult because dialogue is what I like in fics. I didn’t feel like a super chatty ghost would work for a creepy haunting.
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and reviews. I hope you enjoyed it and any kudos and reviews are really appreciated.


	5. Bedroom Crimes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell now, my sweet  
> Am I bleeding on the sheets?  
> Guilty of a crime  
> Committed in my sleep?
> 
> Sonata Sentimental 2 by Oren Lavie (I listened to this heavily for this chapter)

The morning is a struggle, pulling yourself in to the shower, heavy step by heavy step, and washing away last night under steaming hot water that fogs the small bathroom takes time.

Initially in the kitchen you just have some juice, sipping experimentally at it expecting a surge of nausea that goes hand in hand with sickness. Instead you guzzle it down, suddenly thirsty, and realise you’re ravenous. Some clinking in the kitchen later and toast pops up from the toaster, done to perfection, just as you’re finishing a yogurt you’d pulled from the fridge. Golden yellow buttered toast disappears quickly and you finish with a piece of fruit, and tiredness takes over again.

Bed calls, Iris not having moved from the foot of the bed where a sunbeam slices across the sheets. You fall down in to it easily, comfort wrapping around you as you happily doze in and out in the soft morning.

The door creaks.

The bed sheets rustle.

Breath fans across the back of your neck as an arm winds around your waist, pulling your body closer to theirs.

“You're so warm.” His voice rumbles against your ear and you smile and hum. His nose nudges against your ear as you unfold from your curled position and turn around in his hold, bedsheets rustling quietly.

Your wake for a moment, and you’re alone. Eyes slipping closed again you feel him there, cooled skin against yours, your legs tangled like comfortable lovers as your hand rests against his stomach. 

“Something about you..." A hand slides under your pyjama top and on to the warm skin of your back, you shiver at his chilled touch as he leans in closer to you, he hums as his hand slowly meanders up and down your back. You can hear how tired he is in the softness of his voice.

Your hand trails up his stomach to his chest, there’s a different feel to his clothes there, sticky wetness. Your hand trails further up still and it gets wetter, and you realise there’s a scent, heavy and metallic. Your eyes slip open as you bring your fingertips closer to your face. He’s watching you as you frown at the sight of blood covering your fingers.

Over his heart you can see the glistening of wetness on his black shirt, a telltale sign of more blood flowing from a hidden wound. It pours steadily, and seeps on to the sheets thickly.

“I don't understand.” You look up at him, and realise how tired he looks, eyes dark with circles of shadow. He leans close to you slowly, as though he's drawn to you without realizing, and lips as soft as they look caress yours. You can't help but press against him, wound forgotten in the moment, and kiss back. His hand sneaks around to the back of your head, tangling in bed hair as he pulls you closer to deepen the kiss. 

Deceptive against the stillness of the room the kiss is consuming, he’s like a man starved as his other hand presses against the small of your back pulling you in, squeezing you tightly like you’re a lifeline he can’t lose in a storm he can’t face.

You find yourself getting lightheaded, your hand pushing against his wet chest to break away for a moment. He continues on. The sensation of falling while not moving at all sends you dizzy as you fade away in to darkness, a murmured “’m sorry” pressed against your lips as he lets up too late.

You wake feeling rough, no better than when you went for the nap in the first place.

The sun hangs heavy in the sky, most of the day nearly gone but luckily the pharmacy is still open when you arrive. The myriad of cold and flu medicine stares at you from the shelf, and you're in a bit of a daze as you look at them tiredly wondering which will make you feel less like you're about to fall asleep where you stand. Settling for the one with caffeine in it you check out and step out in to the muggy heat of another typical summer day. You bask in the warmth and sunlight for a moment, the ache and cold in your bones letting up for a moment.

An eye stares at you from the window of the brownstone building next door, large and illustrated on sun-yellowed paper.

CLAIRVOYANCY - TAROT - PALMISTRY  
Your future told!

A couple of weeks ago you would have scoffed at yourself, instead you stare up at the building and wonder if maybe there are answers you need here that you won't find anywhere online or in a pharmacy

The small sign in the window says it’s open, it sways rhythmically, almost wiggling as it tempts you. 

“It’ll be an experience” you say out loud to yourself as you go up the steps and hesitate at the door before going in. A bell rings and you hear a distant “coming” as you stand in a very brown hallway. The floors are a shining deep brown wood, as are the shelves with various books on the occult lining them. Interspersed are strange objects and carved candles. The floor creaks under your feet and the ticking of a clock in another room makes for a more intense silence than if there were no sound at all. 

On a shelf, eye level, you see a typical crystal ball, and you bite back a scoff as you move closer to look at the books. Your reflection moves in the ball as you do and from the corner of your eye you see a large form, mostly deep red, revealed behind it and you turn quickly eyes wide and heart racing.

“Welcome, welcome, to Madam Mim’s.” Down the corridor a woman walks out of what looks to be a kitchen, door swinging half shut behind her as she walks forward. You fight the smile that threatens to cross your face as you see she’s dressed quite typically for her job. Her skirts are layered in browns and greens, ruffled and textured that brings to mind trees and moss. The off-white blouse she wears is flowy at the arms but weighed down at the chest by the long beaded necklaces she wears with trinkets dangling from them.

“Let me look at you, let me look at you my dear,” she flows over to you, a stark contrast against your rigid posture, “you’ll be here for a tarot reading I see, your past present and future laid before you. I’ve got time to squeeze you in before my lunch is done. It’ll be 9 drach’s” You can hear the hum of a microwave through the open door as you fish out the coins and press them in to her waiting hand..

“Uh... Ok.” She leads you through to a parlour, you can see the back of the card that sits in the window advertising the services. “I have some questions, about my new home?”

“Keep your question in mind and have a seat, we’ll get right to it.”

The room she takes you in is dark and muggy, with the scent of incense being dispersed around the room by a very out of place white plastic fan that oscillates next to a stuffed owl display. At the centre of the room stands a round deep-coloured oak table with two matching chairs and at the centre is a deck of tarot cards.

Madame Mim gestures towards the deck, a staggering amount of blacelets tinkle around her thin wrist as she does so. “Shuffle the cards, keep your question in mind as you do, pass them back when you feel ready.”

Your shuffling is admittedly clumsy but Madame Mim pays no mind as the sound of a ticking clock, the drone of the fan, and your shuffling fills the room. Hesitantly you place them back in the centre and she whips them back up immediately, expertly spreading them along the table face down in a fan. “Choose a card, don’t look, place it face down here,” you do so, “another,” and again, and finally your choose the last and place it without prompting.

“Your past lies in the card of-“ she flips it and a figure of bone and tattered black cloth stares back at you, a reaping scythe in its hand as it stands above a wilting flower. “Death. But don’t worry this doesn’t mean there’s death in your past, just the end of one thing bringing way to a new beginning, as is the cycle of death my lovely.” She’s seen enough people Blanche at the sight of the death card, you think, as the words come out with the ease of someone who’s said the lines a thousand times over. “You say you recently moved house, so this is in your past now which you know, a good ending for a new beginning, things had to change for you to move on and start anew as the caterpillar dies for the butterfly to emerge.”

What a load of crap, you think to yourself. She’s only told you what you told her, that you had questions about your new house, it’s a given that you’ve had to leave something behind. You smile and nod, glad you’re a third of the way through, at least you can say you’d had the experience.

“For the present you have... The Devil,” the flipped card has a figure, red with horns and satyr-like legs, holding a naked man and woman on leashes made of chain, “You’re trapped in a situation, one of your own making, this choice you’ve made to end one thing and begin another was a bit of a risky move made against advice for want of something different for perhaps selfish reasons.”

You nod, although what she’s saying is far from the truth and in fact you’d made the move at the advice of everyone, as well as in financial stability. Her hand hovers over the final card.

“Your future holds... The Ten of Swords,” Her voice fades in to nothingness as you stare at the card that had been turned. A man lies on his back, draped in a deep red cloth. His hair is pale, countenance relaxed in death, the ten swords that pierce his body attest to that. In the background the sun sets on dark waters that turn red around his body. Your mind goes back to the dream of the basement, of your visitor laying still in dark waters, draped in red, of the blood that stained your bed flowing steadily from a wound on his chest.

“Does that make sense to you, love?” Mim’s tilting her head to the side, regarding you with strangely patient impatience that only someone of her age could have perfected, and you nod.

“A... A little, I suppose.”

“Wonderful, I’m very happy to have helped you dear.”

She’s expertly ushering you out of the door in a way that makes you feel as though you’re choosing to leave, being taken by your own two feet, and you stumble over your feet and words as you reach the door.

“I do have a question that wasn’t answered though.” 

She raises an eyebrow, “The cards aren’t all knowing, they answer what you need to know, not want to know.”

“It’s just that, I think I’m being haunted. And I wanted to know what he needs.”

Her other eyebrow joins the other and she nods, “Well what do all ghosts linger for?” You shake your head dumbly. “Unfinished business, my dear, he has unfinished business. So you need to help him finish it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been longer than I wanted it to be! Thank you for the reviews and kudos. I will be honest I’ve been struggling with depression, and I’ve not even had it in me to enjoy reading fanfiction let alone write it but I’m doing better recently so I’m pulling up my socks and throwing myself back in to the life I enjoy. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter, it’s weird I keep thinking “oh this will happen next” but the story is like “uh no it won’t this is going to happen sit down”. I’m enjoying the ride at least, even if I’m not driving completely.
> 
> Please let me know if you spot any mistakes as I don’t beta these chapters.


	6. How deep does the water go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Till her drop through a darkened sea below, beyond the world  
> How deep does the water go?
> 
> Nocturne - by blanco white
> 
> NSFW content ahead.

The air feels different when you return home, though you’re not sure if it’s you that’s different. Though you’re still bone tired there’s an energy buzzing under your skin, one that’s full of momentum and action. The bags under your arms tell of the same things: A battery powered flood light, a pair of knee high wellies, and a sledgehammer. They thud heavily next to the desk when you all but throw yourself in to the seat, sagging at the relief of sitting down.

You run your hand across the desk, creating a messy path through the light dust that settled overnight.

“I know this was your desk, so what are you hiding, mystery man?”

The handles are cold ornate metal, and your fingers trace lightly over them as you realise you haven’t even tried to get in to this desk. Now you think, there’s something telling you to leave well alone, go back to your paints and naps and let the mystery be, whether it’s your own sensibilities or some supernatural foreboding you ignore it and star tugging the drawers open.

The first has a handful of naughty magazines in, and you slam it shut with an exclamation: You’d come back to this drawer with some disposable gloves... You really hoped the pages wouldn’t stick together, not that you’d try to flip through.

Underneath that drawer the sound of something rolling around caught your ear when you grabbed the handle, and you were startled a little when silver bullets rolled around freely after opening the drawer. Pistol ammo rolled out from a tattered box, and odd bits and bobs for gun care laid next to it, including a dirtied cloth turned black in places. 

The final drawer on that side was the most interesting. A picture lay face up, a woman with a serene face stared back at you from a sun tinted photograph. Her hair a pale blonde, and her eyes piercing and blue, familiar eyes that give you goosebumps as you stare. She looks regal, sat daintily in a dress of rich and deep red material, and you place her photo on the desk so she can have a view that isn’t the dark inside of a wooden drawer.

There’s a letter underneath it, and normally it would be quite fitting to find a letter hidden in a drawer like this but the stationery doesn’t exactly fit the vibe of the old antique desk: The cartoon rabbits and flowers that line the edges of the paper match the pink writing, done in the looping hand of an older child.

The letter itself is more like a scolding and nagging mother than a child’s though. You read it with a wry smile.

/Dante! You weren’t in, again! And of course you’ve left this place a mess. Lady said you might be a while so as payment for fixing up your nasty mess I helped myself to the strawberry sundae in the fridge. Don’t be mad, it wouldn’t have been good for you to eat anyway when you get back. Patty/

“Dante...” It feels as though the name stirs something in the house, carrying further than the room you’re in, seeping in to the floorboards and the ceiling. It feels as though the dust motes move with energy. You hear Iris jump from the bed upstairs with a chirp, and come padding down the stairs.

There are keys underneath the letter. They’re thin, and silver, an identical pair on a thin key ring, both are small.

Filing cabinet keys.

And you know exactly where the filing cabinets are that these will unlock.

You look towards the basement door, keys in hand. The weight of your tiredness makes the decision for you and you place the keys next to the photograph for the night.

The remaining drawers contain junk, bills, and expired pizza coupons for the place you ordered from a while back. Fixing a hot drink you close up for the night, making sure the basement door is shut, and in your mind you tell it to stay closed.

Preparing for bed you already know it won’t be a peaceful and dreamless sleep. You’re ready now though, even though you’re drained and exhausted you feel prepared somehow.

So, when your bedroom door is nudged open softly, you already know it’s him, you already know that you’ve laid down, gone to sleep, and are dreaming, being visited by him. The world has that strange softness that is becoming familiar, the still of the air is expectant and waiting.

The mattress doesn’t dip, but you feel a presence behind you as you lay on your side, large and warm, firm and pressing against your back gently like a seasoned lover. A hand ghosts over your arm, barely touching, a calloused thumb feeling more real than any intimate encounter you’d ever had slips over your shoulder, taking the strap of your top with it.

Beyond your closed eyes you know the room is moon-lit, and you could see if you could only open your eyes except you can’t. You don’t want to. The dream would end if you did and the words you breathe out are whispered to soften the blow of them.

/“What do you need?”/

A breath heats the skin of your neck, a nose gliding across the skin there before soft lips are placed against it. Sighing you can only lay there and take the attention, drinking in the luxury of tender worship. Maybe this is what he needs, his unfinished business...

You can feel the evidence of a firm plane of chest against your back and hardness of a stiff cock against your backside. 

A warm and wet tongue licks a line across your skin as his hand wanders down your side coming to rest above the elastic of your shorts. Those calloused hands feel good against your soft skin, a friction you craved as the tips of his fingers creep under the band and rub small circles on your stomach, lazily but with obvious restraint against impatience that drives them to go lower. Teeth scrape below your jaw and you gasp lightly, a heat flooding your cheeks as his hand creeps lower at a tantalising pace.

His other arm slips under your neck, cushioning you and pulling you closer at once. Deftly it slips under your top to cradle a breast, thumb sweeping over your achingly stiff peak while teeth nip and lips suck at your neck without any rush at all. You know you’re soaking wet at his attentive ministrations and you’re gently rocking against him now.

His hand finally ventures lower and meets with the warmth between your thighs, his fingers becoming coated quickly There’s a moan in your ear, so quiet and distant you’re sure you could have imagined it. Two fingers rub achingly slowly across and around your clit, like he’s spelling out a message you might hopefully read if only you weren’t losing your mind at the stimulation. He bites down on your neck as his fingers press down and rub with a sudden slide and you keen lightly. His fingers continue lower until they’re teasing your entrance for just a short moment. Both slip in at once, their way made easier by your arousal but there’s still that delightful tightness and adjusting inside that makes you feel like there’s a heat in your stomach.

He hums in appreciation in to your ear, so distant it’s like he isn’t there at all. His thumbs play you expertly, almost like an instrument, strumming across your nipple and clit gently as you cry out ever so softly. The song he’s playing on you is a long one and he seems to know every bar by heart, and you mould against him like you were made for him. Your orgasm surprises you, more used to aggressive lovers who pull your fulfilment from you in haste, this orgasm doesn’t crash like a wave on you: It overtakes you like the tide on a beach. You come slowly and it’s drawn out by those expert hands that stroke in all the right places while his lips, tongue, and teeth caress your neck.

“Dante,” his name slips past your lips in a low moan, and he holds you tighter for it even as he slips away.

Waking in the morning you feel better than you have in a while, less chilled, bones less stiff, body finally relaxed. Your bedroom door is still open, showing his- Dante’s is open too. You pull it shut as you walk by towards the bathroom, not wanting Iris to go in there when she finally rises from her sleep at the end of your bed.

The water is hot against your skin and as you rinse away your slickness and find yourself tender still, the dream plays in your mind. The best foreplay you’d ever had and it came from a midnight spectre visiting your sleep. Your fingers change from cleaning to stroking, and you find yourself panting quickly as you revisit your night time rendezvous. You’re glad you have a name to put to his face, and body, as you remember his tall and muscly figure, curled against your body and taking you in a deceptively tender way. A selfless way. You imagine what you would do for him, if there would be a next time. Maybe his unfinished business is a good fuck?

The bathroom mirror steams up, and you don’t see the handprint pushed against the fog, it is gone by the time you step out of the shower. The marks on your neck, however, leave a light frown on your face as you wipe away the condensation. Your fingers trace over them, remembering the warm lips and sharp teeth, sharper than any ghost or haunter of dreams should have.

______________

“Unfinished business,” you mutter to yourself as you swing open the basement door. You put it off for a short while, fear tinging your heartbeat whenever you thought of going to the place that always seemed otherworldly, although you could put that down to its significance in your dreams.

Maybe the monster that surfaced from below was metaphorical, and the unfinished business was some secret lover who had Dante’s kid, and now he felt guilty over unpaid childcare and missed birthdays or something.

Gods you hoped the beast was just a metaphor.

The wellies fit stiffly on your feet, and you feel unbalanced in the new shoes while also carrying a sledgehammer and the floodlight. The wood squeaked and groaned with every step, but you went slowly, finally stepping down in to the water which now rose to the base of your calf.

The floodlight revealed more of the room that you’d seen before. The water was murky, and became murkier still around your feet as they disturbed dirt. The smell of the room, damp and old, would cling to whatever you took out of here, you hoped it wouldn’t stay in your hair.

Heavy sloshing accompanied you as you approached the closest filing cabinet, one of two that were steel, the other three looked old and were made of wood that had a swollen look to the timber.

The key worked, and inside were old files, damp and softened to the touch all the way up to the third drawer. You pulled one out, sliding the sheet from the tan file wrapped around it. A name, if that: “Mrs B”. You read through, and instead of answering questions the file only raised several more. Words like “Puppet show” and “multiple nobodies” read like code words, at the bottom the word exterminated was underlined. The final fee had multiple amounts taken from it, in thick red pen, each describing damages to property. The next two files you quickly flick through have that similar style to them.

You put them away and shut the drawer knowing you’d get nothing for the trouble of looking through the rest instead of more questions. Looking over to the next one, the one in the centre of the room you spot something, the top edge of something brown and small resting on top of the cabinet. You approach the cabinet and lose sight of it as you do, so you tiptoe and crane your neck as best you can do catch a glimpse of what it is. A notebook, edges worn and crinkled but the year debossed on the front only says last year, and it leans against the back wall teasingly. Water sloshes as you grunt with effort reaching your arm up and over as much as you can. For your troubles you only get your fingertips caked with dust.

Stepping back you look around in frustration as you wipe your fingers over your top.

"Desperate measures," you say out loud as you pull the bottom drawer out. You know it's a stupid idea as you step up on to the sides of the drawer and pull yourself up holding on to the side, holding stock still when the cabinet rocks forward with your effort. "Ahhhh don't don't don't." It steadies and you breathe out, sending a spiral of dust across the top of the cabinet.

Reaching out you grab at the planner before the whole thing can tip but as you bring it back towards you, long black legs curl around the side of it and you screech, snatching your hand back and stepping back on to thin air.

You and your shout of alarm are swallowed up by water deeper than the calf high waters of the basement. You open your eyes as you snap your mouth shut and hold your breath.

Endless water surrounds you, white light reflecting on the surface that is far far above you barely reaches where you are now. Dark water is around you, darker still below you and as you look in to the abyss you feel fear coil around your throat as something below comes towards you from the blackness.

It's thicker than the water around you, forming like smoke and rising just the same. But this is red. Red and flowing as though from some fresh wound from below you and there's more each moment until all below you is red and rising towards you.

Pure blood

Transfixed, held in place by your own disbelief you watch as something emerges from the fog of blood. A large paw, with wicked looking claws, and you don't have to imagine how they would sound against the wooden floor of your home: You've heard those before.

You turn in the water, made clumsy by your fear you flouder and reach desperately for the light above you as you kick. Looking back isn't an option, it isn't neccesary either, the blood slowly starts seeping by you, tendrils like vines reaching towards the sun and after a too-short time the world around you is tinged red.

It's behind you, you can feel the impact of its paws against the water behind you as it strokes are harder and faster than yours. Your chest clenches in fear and desperate need for breath and the light above you, once white, is tainted by the red of the blood that saturates the water.

Your hand pushes out of the water and somehow you're sitting in shallow flood water in your basement, gasping and cold, soaked through to the bone. A hiss of pain slips through your teeth as you start to move and you look down at the boot covering your calf.

Three wide lines are gouged through the thick green rubber of the boot. You can see through the tears that went through your clothes underneath, all the way to the lines on your calf that bleed steadily.

That much blood doesn't explain how the water around you, once the dirty grey of stagnant water, is now a dull and diluted bloody red.

____

The puddles you left when you went back upstairs are red and leave a trail all the way to the shower, where you'd stood for a long time, clothes at your feet rinsing through until the water that pours down the drain no longer runs a thin rusty orange colour. There's no doubt in your mind that there is blood in your basement, blood on your clothes and in your hair, and you mull it over as you tidy the mess you left behind you as you sped up the stairs and out of the basement, battery powered light left behind and on.

But you had the book.

The brown journal from only last year that could answer some questions about Dante, hopefully not make more.

You had propped one of your larger easels against the basement door, underneath the handle in hope that it would keep whatever was down there, down there. On your terms.

Once the floor was cleaned, mop water poured down the drain in the small garden behind your home, you folded up on the settee in the front room that you'd turned in to your studio.

"What are your secrets, Dante?"

It reads the same as the quick glance through the folder you'd taken. Code words and vague references with initialled names for privacy, or protection. All had a single strike through them in blue pen, probably meaning finished and dealt with you assumed.

The progress stops midway through the book, some time in May, the final entry without a strike through...

Unfinished Business.

Jackpot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays. I hope this chapter was worth the wait. I doubt I will be posting before new year though I will be writing the next chapter over the break I have from work. Thank you for all the reviews and kudos :)


	7. Night Portrayals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finding out what Dante’s unfinished business is is riskier business than you realise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the night portrays us,  
> The moon betrays us  
> And the darkness covers us  
> And under the covers,  
> Lying second hand lovers tonight
> 
> Second Hand Lovers - Oren Lavie

The address was not too far from your home. A quick stop to re-fuel in the morning before leaving the city limits, and to grab a toasted breakfast wrap, and you have an hour's drive to kill.

Now you know for sure you have a spirit in your home, it's easy to acknowledge the absence of the heaviness of Dante's presence. It was almost draining, and the further you drove from home the less run-down you felt. That strange pre-illness feeling of being constantly drained and fighting for every drop of energy you have is fading away and for the first time in weeks you feel well.

City turns to suburbs, which turns to countryside and open motorways quickly. The map on your phone guides you well, but you double check everything when you pull to a stop at the end of a long, long drive with a tall imposing gate at the end. The country lane behind you is empty and quiet, not even the sound of insects buzzing and chirping on a summer day reach your ears.

As you stand looking around, sweat gathering on your skin, you hear the telltale whirl of electronics, and look up to find the black eye of a security camera trained on you. With a massive clang the gates part and you glance down the tree-shaded driveway, before getting back in to your car.

The summer light is dappled by the trees that you pass, though the sight would normally be a beautiful and warming one there is something about this place that fills you with dread. The green of the trees and grass are muted, almost desaturated, and it’s even quieter here save for the sound of your car as it drives down the dry dirt path that’s littered with rocks and sticks. No one has come this way in a while. No one cares for this place, yet there were security cameras at the electric gate.

“I am absolutely going to die” you say out loud to yourself as a mansion comes in to view. You can’t even give it the redeeming thought that it was once beautiful, because although sun-dried vines and weather wearing have claimed it you are sure it never looked beautiful. It’s too imposing for that. Even the fountain that you drive around, dry and full of grime, is imposing. A creature, maybe an angel once, is twisted in agony reaching up to the blue and empty sky of this summer midday.

The book, Dante’s unfinished business, sits in your pocket reminding you why you’re here, and that you get to be a hero for a lost soul if you can brave it out, so you press on.

The brass knocker gives you pause when you face the door, hand up to knock.

It’s dirty and unpolished but undoubtedly it is shaped like a large beast’s paw, sharp and wicked looking claws extend and point below ready to slice unwelcome visitors that lift the knocker. Your leg throbs in reminder and you knock instead with your knuckle.

Unsurprisingly someone answers quickly, as though they were waiting for you to knock, which meant the security cameras were active and monitored.

Surprisingly the man who answers knows your name.

“Ms _____, my master will be so pleased you finally accepted his invitation.” His tone is dull, monotonous and drawling with boredom, and it matches his droopy boring face perfectly. He’s an older man, but he stands tall and firm in form, mousy brown hair thin on his head, with matching dull brown eyes. He’s like a half hearted painting of a person, nothing about him showing personality, from his lifeless eyes to the straight line of his lips. “I am Andrew Hall.” His bow is slow and very shallow it’s almost a slow nod of his head.

“Invitation?” You step through as he holds the door open. The inside is dark and spacious, with imposing stairs in the centre. As your eyes adjust you see dark shapes line the walls, more than you can count.

Paintings. There had to be a hundred paintings in this room, of all shapes and sizes. As you’re looking around and up at the two floors worth of paintings a voice to your right startles you.

“Your agent insisted you weren’t open for commissions _____. While your visit is unexpected I am so glad you finally accepted my invitation.”

"Mr Critchley, it's so nice to see you." It isn’t, but the lie easily slips out of your mouth thanks to the hours you'd spent at art galleries rubbing elbows with snobs who wouldn't even give you the time of day if it wasn't for your paintings.

"Please, call me Avarice. Hall, fetch us some tea.”

Hall, the butler or manservant, strides away after a deep nod to Avarice.

Avarice Critchley was a man who made your skin crawl from the moment you first met him a few years back. His eyes were the first thing that caught your attention, so dark in colour they almost seem black, so small and glossy they remind you of a bird of prey. As he steps out of the darkness you can see a gleam in them as he watches you, his step not graceful but certainly measured. His blond hair is slicked back, not a hair out of place, and his pearly white teeth match the same level of perfection.

“I hope I’ve not caught you at a bad time?” The book is heavy in your pocket, but you go with your instincts, which scream at you not to mention Dante, or Devil May Cry.

He smiles, mouth stretching too far to be comfortable, his eyes fixed on you. “Not for you, my dear, I’ve coveted your work long enough that any time is a good time for you.”

Something catches your eye over his shoulder, you’re not sure what it is in the dark but as your eyes adjust you see it’s a painting sat in an ornate frame.

Which is odd because you could swear it was movement that caught your eye.

“I see you have a large collection... Avarice,” the forced familiarity leaves a sour taste on your tongue, “Anyone I know?”

He throws his head back, laughing as though you’ve just told the funniest joke he’s ever heard. He sighs after a moment, “Well, let us see if you recognise anyone.”

He gestures to the painting that caught your eye: a beautiful horse in a field of wheat, its long white mane almost looks as though it’s moving in the wind and you say as much out loud, the artist in you already studying the painting to learn new techniques.

“It’s my horse, a beautiful thing, up close its mane shines with all the colours of the rainbow, I had to have it captured forever.”

You nod dumbly, but he doesn’t seem to be looking at you, he’s looking at the horse still as his hand ghosts over the painting, over the horse, careful not to touch the oils.

“This is one of my oldest ones,” you move a few paintings over, passing by paintings of landscapes and empty rooms. He gestures to the next painting, “Isn’t she lovely?”

She is, you can’t deny that. The woman in the portrait is a classical beauty, her dark hair falls in shallow waves, across bare shoulders until they reach the gitana dress she’s wearing. The tears are rendered in her eyes wonderfully, looking perfectly glossy with wetness as she stares out to the side of the painting.

“But so sad.”

“Yes, Sofia Garcia,she was the most beautiful woman in her village. Every man wanted her hand but she loved a local farm hand. Her parents refused to let her marry him.” He didn’t seem sad for her when he told you this, quite the opposite in fact, he had a wistful smile on his face as he studied Sofia’s sad eyes. “She was married off to a rich foreigner and she never saw her love again.”

Avarice moved on, obviously enjoying showing you his painting collection, and it went along in the same strange way that something unseen or unknown was unsettling you. Warning you to get as far away as you could from this place and its paintings, and its owner too.

“This is one of my more recently acquired pieces.” He leads you up the stairs in the centre, stopping when you reach the landing where the stairs split in to two. He gestures up at the painting but you’re already looking, eyes wide and breath still as he smiles widely, “The Dark Abyss.”

His red coat flows out around him, stark white hair contrasting against the bleak surroundings of dark and dull water that seems to swell against his sides and turn red. Dante looks like he’s sleeping, but the thick sword through his chest tells you otherwise. He looks like he’s laid in shallow water, sword going straight through in to dirt, but the darkness of it says otherwise.

Mountains loom in the background, dull and almost sepia, like an old photograph, or a polluted landscape. The sky above seems to swirl, a stormy brown of rain and eclipsed sun. It’s a land of dim and shadow, and in the shadows of trees lining the water in the distance were forms like bears on all fours... or very large dogs. 

It looks like Hell.

“What- What is this piece... about?” You swallow, throat suddenly desert-dry, tearing your eyes away to look at Avarice as he gazes up at the painting, looking proud, the gleam in his eyes so intense they look completely black in the dim lighting.

“A half demon, who hunted his own kind, bested by his better. The demon tricked him in to an eternal sleep in the valley of the forgotten.”

“How?” The intensity in your voice should startle you, but you’re absorbed, and Critchley takes you as a captive audience, not a horrified one. “How did he trick him?”

“Ahh, that is a secret, though... perhaps I could share it with you.” he tapped a long finger against his chin, mocking thought though it was more cruel consideration. You felt the hairs on your arms prickle, your heart quivered in your chest, and you breath quickened.

And the sound of your phone ringing brought you from your deer-in-headlights moment.

“Sorry, just have to take this.” You pulled the phone to your ear as you glimpsed the name, Carole, your agent. “Hey, sorry I’m still at Mr Critchley’s.”

“O-Kay... Are you alright?”

“Yes! I’m just about to finish here, I’ll come pick you up soon.”

She hesitates for a moment before “Call me when you leave. I’ll speak to you soon.” She hung up first and you breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Bless Carole for knowing he could probably hear her side of the conversation, for not asking questions and making sure you got to your car alright.

She’d fielded all of Avarice’s requests to meet with you one on one, had warned you there was something strange about him when you were still a newbie on the art scene. 

You were grateful someone knew where you were, and that Critchley knew that too. His soured look when you turned around made your stomach flip

“I have to go, so sorry for the short stay! I’ll have Carole call you see if we can’t set something up in the future. Sorry about the tea, absolutely next time though.” 

The goodbyes were short and succinct, Critchley did seem pleased however, that you had visited, and the promise of sorting some sort of meeting placated him.

Walking away from the house and slipping in to your car you felt that there were eyes watching you leave at every darkened window you could see in your mirror. Even the stone angel of the fountain seemed to be watching you as you drove away, neck bent at an odd angle, mouth twisted open in an endless, soundless scream.

The world felt overly bright as you drove away from the house, and on leaving the driveway the over-saturation had you slipping on sunglasses as you drove. It felt like the house had taken something from you, and you were only now getting it back.

It felt familiar.

It felt like waking after the dreams, drained and empty and tired to the bone.

The drive home passed in a strange blur, your mind picturing Dante trapped, somehow haunting his old home. Maybe he was dead, tethered to life by the picture, or maybe he was still alive somehow, and was reaching out for help.

And the other paintings: So, so many hanging on the walls of just his entry hall, what if they were all trapped too. That woman, Sofia, had looked so sad: how long had she been there looking out to Critchley’s hollow and dark home, how many times did she see his black eyes looking in and smirking.

And what, if anything, could you do about it.

These thoughts cycled endlessly in your head, churning and whirling even as you threw your keys on to the desk of your home, Iris blinking benignly at you from the chair behind it as you walked up the stairs with one destination in mind.

Dante’s door was still ajar, his bed still as though he had left it that morning. You pushed the door open slowly and his scent hit you, a familiar and comforting one now, you realised. The presence that once pushed you away was weighty and welcoming, like an embrace.

You wanted to know him. He was more than a spirit, more than someone haunting your home, he was a man once. He slept in a bed and left it in the morning with sheets rumpled, he liked pizza and records and ice cream sundaes. He had friends, a young girl who missed him when he was gone and ate the contents of his fridge for her troubles.

The room felt still, that strange feeling of a place that’s been untouched for so long that even dust motes don’t drift through warm beams that slice through the dusty window. You trail a hand along the top of a dusty dresser, a path etched through the dirt stopping at cologne your fingers danced across before picking it up.

It smelled like him. Like this room.

You rubbed away the dust with your bare hands, the red of the bottle shining in the light of an orange dusk, warm and cool in your hands at once. A bobble head, one of... Sparda, maybe? You weren’t that familiar with deities of other cities. You tapped it with a smile as the head nodded up and down, dust caked your finger again and you pulled your sleeve up over your hand and wiped it over the statue. 

The room and the dust are so still.

Like a mausoleum. 

You stride to the window and throw the panes open, the room takes a deep breath for the first time in a long time. Dust dances around you, escaping through the window in a bid for freedom long awaited and you’re caught in a frenzy of movement with them as you clean and dust and change sheets that were once white for new ones.

But you leave them messy, unmade, as though he’s just got up and left for a day doing gods know what.

You sit on the edge of the bed and breathe, watching dust motes dance through bridges of light that seep through the window and on to the bed. The warmth in your hand that sits in a pool of amber light sinks to the bone. 

You wonder if Dante is still cold. If he always will be.

The room still smells of him.

You pull your top off, discard it on the floor next to his jeans, your own follow next, topped by your bra and underwear, and you slide in to his bed with bare skin painted orange in the failing light of a midsummer day. 

Laying on your side you look over to the empty space next to you, extend a hand as though placing it over the chest of a lover laid on his back. You settle it on the bed, watching how tired shadows cast towards you, arched off your fingertips.

“I want to save you... but I don’t know if I can.” You sigh and frown, ”I’ve not felt like I can do much recently. Moving here, it was supposed to help me work again, instead all I’ve wanted to do is dream of you and now- Now there’s something to be done, for someone who really needs help, and I’m scared. I’m scared of failing, as always.”

You wonder if Dante is scared.

You wonder how he felt when he failed to beat Critchley.

You wonder if he understands he’s trapped.

You wonder, until your eyelids drop and your thoughts drift away for a short time to dreamless sleep, finding comfort in a strange bed that smells of warm sandalwood and leather.

He’s cold to the touch under your hand that sits on top of his bare chest, shallow breathing being the only thing showing you he’s alive. The night portrays him beautifully, skin and hair glow by the light of the moon to a startling white. His stubble even shines.

Your legs are tangled under the sheets, comfortable in the silent blue of the bedroom, like seasoned lovers.

You blink as you feel warmth slowly seeping away, but that’s fine, you think, you have enough for him.

“Dante...” You press a kiss against his shoulder, lips cooling in the short moment you linger there.

He takes a deep breath, like someone stirring from a heavy sleep. Soothingly you stroke your hand along his chest, watching as he slowly opens his eyes and sighs.

A rumble almost like a storm and a purr all at once.

“Didn’t think.... I’d see you again.” His words are slow and halting, like he’s finding himself and words again after a long time. They fall in this strange blue space like anchors in to the sea, heavy and steadying. He turns his head to you tiredly, blue shadows blur under his eyes, and his lips are tinged from the chill that lies heavy on his skin.

His eyes search yours, the blue of them reminding you of a clear winter sky, endless cerulean, he looks like he wants to speak, to say something, but all he can find is a small smile that twitches at his lips when he looks at you and blinks slowly as though the effort is gargantuan.

That soft rub of bedsheets on bare skin sounds loud but just as comforting as you pull yourself across the bed slowly, until you’re holding yourself above Dante, looking down at his tired smile and sky-blue eyes.

“I could never leave you here alone.” His stubble is the right length to be smooth as your fingers lightly trace his jaw, caressing as you lean down, lips ghosting over his as he watches you through tired eyes, “You’re gonna be ok, Dante.”

The headiness of the kiss leaves you dizzy, even though you were prepared, you’ve never fell in to a kiss before. You give him everything you have, everything he needs you let him take, his soft lips on yours responding lazily at first, and then with passion that dizzies you further.

His hand rises from the bed brushes agains your thigh in a questioning way, and you move until you’re straddling Dante, both hands in his hair as your body feels slowly heavier.

He takes, and you give, you can feel your energy slowly ebbing away, but it’s okay, you take from him too.

You relish him, as though he were a last meal before your death day. His lips are warmer now, hands stronger as they skim up your bare thighs, stroking at your skin in unhurried luxury. His hands tug lightly at the back of your legs, and you inch up his body until your mound presses against his length teasing at more, the smile that you press against his lips has him smiling back before you sit up.

The delicious rub pulls a sigh from you both, and you can’t help but rock a little as he firms, becoming rock hard underneath you as you become wetter.

Not wanting to wait, wanting to give and take everything all at once you reach down and stroke his cock, watching as his lips part in a slow moan, hips lifting with reassuring strength, seeking more than your hands.

Shifting, you angle your hips, wetness easing the slow push of him as he enters but not enough to take away that tightness that makes your toes curl. Resting a hand on his stomach you sink down until you’re flush against him, and he’s panting lightly with want, and restraint, and exertion and you both give and take in a constant loop.

He fills you, deeply, and you surround him completely.

You huff when you first sink back down on him after the slow and torturous pull of lifting off of his hips, he sinks back in easier this time. Underneath hands that rest on top of his stomach you feel his muscles tense as you grind down, that push and depth something you want to chase.

You lose yourself in the steady and un-rushed rhythm you create, lidded eyes watching Dante underneath you painted in whites and blues and blacks. 

He’s beautiful.

The back of his fingers skims up your stomach, under your breast so gently that they caress your nipple as it passes, lingers for a breath over your heart that beats like a drum in his ears, and along the hollow of your neck, to rest at your cheek.

“Hmmm,” you smile as your own hand captures his, pressing it against your cheek as you lean to it, laying a kiss in to the palm of his hand as you ride him, almost glowing in the dark of the room.

You’re beautiful.

He watches captivated, but he can hear the rush of water even if you can’t. It pushes through the unseen tear in the basement, up the basement stairs and underneath the locked door.

He doesn’t care.

There’s only you and now.

The warmth and light you give.

He pushes up against you, hips rising in desperation, the tender slow grind forgotten as he pushes deeper still, wanting more than you’re giving him, needing more than you can give him even though you would willingly let him take it. You move faster against him, deeper and harder, watching as his head falls back against the pillows, pale neck bared to you in some sort of surrender.

You doubt, somehow, in life he had ever been so vulnerable.

He sits up, a hand around your back while the other grabs one of your legs, moving you to sit on his lap as he kneels, cock buried deep in your warmth. He groans against the skin of your throat as he thrusts up, you curl against him, fingers tangled in his pale hair as he nuzzles you and fucks up in to you with vigour. 

Your name spills from his lips with wonder, his breath splays warm against your collarbone, and you’re so lost in each other you don’t pay mind to the sound of water flowing up the stairs.

It isn’t urgent and you both knew it would come, but on this bed, you found calm in tremulous waters and peace in fear.

Resolution in doubt

He turns you both, strength in his arms and deep in his core, skin heated and shining with a light sweat, a contrast against your chill. Laid against the bed you shiver in pleasure and cold, nipples stiff from both. You lift your hips as Dante thrusts shallow and hard, body covering yours as you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers weaving trails through his hair.

The light tug you manage pulls him closer, lips capturing yours without hesitation, and you feel heat in your core, glowing like embers on a cold night. Dante feels your body tensing, your breaths against his needy mouth short and shallow as you gasp with each deep thrust.

He ignores the water that spills in through the door, rushing now with urgency to take what it owns.

He has all the time for you.

Your legs wrap around his hips, your body angling beautifully under him, an arch that pushes you just right as you unwind underneath him, body shivering as your orgasm clenches around his cock.

Dante falls forward, nuzzling his face in to your neck, memorising the scent and taste of your lust and fulfilment and you as his hips lose rhythm, and he spills deep inside of you.

 _“Dante,”_ is all you can whisper as the water seeps across the bedsheets only milliseconds before water crashes over the sides, and you’re both lost to the abyss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been 3 months since 2020 started and to say things have gone crazy is an understatement. Not just in the world but my personal life. I’m happy to write that I’m doing better with my depression and can say a lot of this fic came from it.
> 
> This fic is 11 chapters long, I’ve written up to the end of chapter 10 which is the ending, and there’ll be an epilogue as well. I hope you like what’s in store, I’ve made it as DMC as I could. Thank you for the reviews, cudo’s, subscriptions, and lovely comments, and please take care of yourselves in these crazy time. Whoever is playing Jumanji should hopefully finish soon.


	8. Heavy Burdens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s time to free Dante, but nothing is without a cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the flowers turned red  
> And the shadows grew tall  
> Did I make you disappear?  
> Were you ever here at all?
> 
> Did you really say no - Oren Lavie

The sound of cars passing by on the street wakes you slowly, and you realise you’re lying on your back in Dante’s bed, the sun of the morning not warm enough yet to heat your cold damp skin, but even so you feel that pleasant drift of the morning after good sex. The only things missing are the enjoyable ache between your legs and... your lover.

You sigh.

Pulling yourself out of his bed is hard but you manage it, you have work to do.

===

The sun sits at the right position that you can watch the road without being seen, the shade cast by the trees so deep against the bright glare of sun that you car and you sit in it were unnoticeable.

You sip. at the iced tea you’d bought on the way out to wash down the pastry you’d bought at the same time, nerves meaning you’d left much too early, and had time to kill. The tiredness that clung to you was fading with the heat of the sun and with food and drink, you almost felt like you’d had a proper night’s sleep now.

Waking with the sun had meant you could get started, and the first thing you did on seeing your phone was call Carole.

Eight missed calls. You were surprised she hadn’t come round and knocked your front door down.

“I am so, so, sorry Carole, I got home and practically passed out, I didn’t even hear you calling.” You paced the kitchen as you cooked a large breakfast, sipping on juice as you waited for the omelette to be ready to flip.

“As long as you’re okay. What on earth were you doing at Mr Critchley’s?”

The lie slipped out easily, “I wanted to see his collection, I hear he has paintings that barely see the light of day. You know I’ve been struggling lately I thought...”

She took the pause as a good time to chime in, “Next time let me know or don’t go alone, I feel like he has a chamber of horrors in something in that house of his,” Her tone is firm, but not unkind, just reminding you she’s there in ways you often forget she can be.

The omelette sizzled as you flipped it, and you waited a moment for the sound to die down, “You’ve been there?”

“I’ve seen pictures, you know how he likes to brag about what he owns.” You could hear the tapping of a keyboard in the background, and of course Carole is multi-tasking. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he owned that butler of his.”

You wouldn’t be either, knowing what you know.

“I need a favour Carole, I want to set up a meeting with him. Today.”

The sound of a car blaring its horn as it passes another on the country lane startles you out of your reverie. This hasty plan feels like it could fall apart very easily but you already have most of it down.

Your phone chimes, marking an hour and a half that has passed since you’d seen Critchley leave, chauffeured away by Hall.

Enough time that if their security did alert them that there was someone climbing clumsily over the fence at the side of their estate, they wouldn’t make it back in good time.

You hoped, as you landed in the dull gardens with only a slight stumble, that they would reach the restaurant in another hour, and hopefully sit waiting for an hour, before they realise you’re not going to show up, Carole apologising and trying to get hold of you to which you would answer, with Dante safe and sound, that you’d been called away and had no way of contacting until now.

And then everyone lived happily ever after.

Which felt very far away as you sneaked through the garden, the house looming through the trees and bushes as you progressed. The light felt like it was being sucked out of the atmosphere, the pleasant summer day so far away now.

The window next to the front door would do, you picked up a rock as you walked towards it, the tortured angel watched with its twisted mouth as you threw with all your strength, the smash of the glass disturbingly loud in the silence, even more eerie was that no animals skittered or flew away from the trees and bushes that sat still around the house.

You threw the picnic blanket that you kept in the back of your car over the ledge after knocking the remaining shards of glass out of the pane, the tinkling sound echoing in the hollow house.

The darkness was abrupt.

The dull de-saturation of the garden was still enough that you felt blind when you entered the dark of the front hall, the room felt like it went on forever and the shadows that danced in your eyes as they adjusted felt real enough that you held your breath in fear.

But your eyes adjusted.

And the room, while not so dark to your eyes any more, still held movement.

The white horse, threw its mane as it pawed at the ground before taking off to the hills at a gallop. Sofia’s shoulders shook as she cried, turning away as you turned on the torch of your phone.

The beam swept up and around as you turned in horrified fascination.

Every painting moving, every subject alive within the frames, the oils shifting like water. Your shoes squeeked as you turned, the noise echoing through endless halls you felt sure were lined with paintings that moved, that watched, that ached for freedom.

The bannister shone in the light as you walked towards it, sparkling clean just as the rest of the hall, no signs of true life, no dust or fingerprints or memories. 

Nerves filled your stomach as you walked towards The Dark Abyss.

At first you thought the painting wasn’t moving, the world so still as you watched with baited breath, and then the movement, subtle as it was, caught your attention.

The red coat, bobbed lightly up and down, so, so minimally it was near impossible to notice if you weren’t as still as a statue yourself. The water rippled gently around Dante’s very still body. That was all the movement you could see, even the trees in the distance didn’t move, the valley of the forgotten as still as death.

The hair on your arms stood on end as your hand neared the painted canvas, only a breath away you breathed deeply and closed your eyes.

But there was no strength in the darkness of your closed lids. Fear kept your hand from pushing forward

Instead you opened your eyes, Dante’s sleeping form so pale and lonely in the wasteland.

You pushed.

———

The restaurant was busy, busier than Arthur Critchley liked, more populated with humans than he liked as well. 

He’d also been waiting far longer than he liked for anyone, and that included you, as coveted as you were.

Carole, the middle aged agent of yours whose dislike he could taste in the air, had stepped out again to try and call you.

Her platitudes were wearing thin and when she returned to the table he had to breathe deeply to quell his rage.

“Well, where is she?” He did his best not to snip, catching more flies with honey was a long wearing lesson he had learned, though often found impossible to adhere to.

“I’m sorry she’s not... oh... who were we talking about?” The human flopped in to her chair, confusion misting over her expression quite suddenly.

Avarice sensed it, another soul had joined his collection. More specifically it had entered The Dark Abyss, the land of the forgotten. And he had a very clear inkling who it was.

He stood up quickly, “I’m afraid I must cut our meeting short, I do hope you have new talent at the next gallery. It seems I have an unexpected visitor in my home.”

====

It feels like your soul is bleeding, or a puncture had been made and you were losing something of yourself for every moment you spend in this place, like sand falling through cupped hands and spreading to the winds. The feeling was instant as soon as your vision cleared from the whirl of sepia tones that settled in to a dead landscape of barren trees and dull skies.

The shore is still, no sound of water lapping against the sand, it just sits stagnant and lifeless at the edge. The water itself is still and smooth.

But you can see him clearly.

You don’t have time to waste, and there’s no hesitation in your steps as you run out on to the water. 

And you don’t stop to wonder how it is you’re walking /on/ the water, rather than splashing through it clumsily and stumbling.

All you can do is run to him, even as the sound of baying hounds in the distance begins. Even as you feel as though you’re leaving something behind with every step you take, like a trail of breadcrumbs.

There is a sword buried deeply in his chest, you know it must come out of his back. It’s’ thick and long, with a hilt made of rib and bone and skull, the empty sockets stare at you, deeper than they should be for an ornamentation. 

You shudder and turn away, kneeling next to Dante, placing a hand on his chest.

He’s not breathing.

But somehow, you know he can, you know he could, if only you could pull the sword out. You gently push his hair away from his eyes, dark lashes darker still for laying on pale skin never flutter at the movement. You thought it would feel different seeing him outside of your dreams, more real.

Now you realise your dreams were just as real as anything else.

You take a deep breath, stagnant air filling your lungs and nose with chill. The lump in your throat and prickling in your eyes surprises you, but you stand.

You’ll be brave.

“You won’t be alone again, Dante.”

You grip the silver handle of the sword, but the angle is wrong to pull it out without doing more damage, so you lay your hands flat on either side of the blade and pull.

The slight movement has you pressing your hands together more firmly, fingertips catching at the end of the blade, red blooming from sharp slices.

The pain is startling.

Breath catches in your throat at it and you stop, looking at your hands around a sword, following it down to the man below you. He’s familiar, you frown since you can’t place him, but continue pulling at the sword, knowing it needs to come out.

Sweating hands make the work harder, and you grab at the part where blade meets hilt, sharp edges biting in to your palms as you pull. It hurts, the pain bringing you out of a reverie lost in fog, so you stop for a moment looking down, surprised to find a man with snow white hair and blood red clothes laying in dirty water.

He’s beautiful.

A sword pierces through his middle but he looks peaceful, as though he’s sleeping.

The sword rests in your hands, which are bloodied and wet.

Did you do this?

You start pulling at the sword, you need to get it out. You don’t know much but this one thing sits in your mind like a stone in a gale, unmoving and firm. There’s wetness on your cheeks, the tears don’t stop.

Pulling, sweating, it shifts once, twice, and then all at once slides out with a gruesome sound.

Below you, a sleeping man lays in water, and he starts to sink, drifting down slowly, but peacefully.

"Please don't leave me..." you whisper to him as his body disappears in to the dark waters. 

Something cold and heavy burdens your arms, and you’re so very tired now. A silver skull stares up at you with empty eyes, blood smeared across its face. Your hands sting badly in the cold air, and you startle, dropping the blade which falls silently in to the water, gone from memory as soon as it is out of sight.

You are alone, the sepia sky and mountains in the distance watch you as you spin around slowly. ripples spreading around you before giving up and sinking away. There’s blood on your hands, cold and wet and stinging in the dead air.

And you are very much alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh getting so close to the end! I hope everyone is doing well in quarantine and out. I work in a hospital so aside from not being able to get loo roll or rice without selling my soul life hasn’t changed much (I have no social life to isolate from ahahaha). How are things going for you guys?
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! And thank you for the comments, kudos, subscriptions, and reads. Next chapter next week!


	9. Devils Never Forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dante is haunted by memories, but Devils never really forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear your voice but you're not here.  
> I walk the halls and I'm alone.  
> You're not coming home. 
> 
> Come Back To Me - Les Friction

His eyes stick when he tries to open them.

Dante opens his eyes only a little, to see where he is, and finds he’s in his basement.

“What the hell was I doing last night...” Pushing himself up he shuffles across the floor, wondering at how he’s so tired he can barely pick up his feet, boots scuffing against the concrete.

He heads up the stairs, feeling like he’s climbed a mountain he stumbles straight to the next set of stairs, bathed in the orange glow of streetlights.

He’s so tired it’s unnatural, for a devil like him.

He tosses his coat to the floor, and pulls his black tee over his head.

“Huh,” the light from outside shines through the large gash in the front going straight through the the back. Now he stops to think, to smell; the scent of blood hangs around the shirt, barely though, as though it’s been soaked away.

And it’s his own blood.

“Whatever,” he rubs absently at his chest, feeling nothing amiss, his skin smooth and painless. Shedding the rest of his clothes he lays down heavily on the unmade sheets, a car passes by outside, lights like a beacon along the ceiling lull his eyes to a close.

A scent lingers in the air.

Sweet and soft, it lingers, dancing and twirling. It reminds him of sunlight, the taste of warm summer days and the feel of heated skin under his fingers, under his lips.

_A kiss, pressed against his shoulder, warm and soothing._

_He stretches languidly as he drifts to sleep._

_The comforting weight on his lap, skin against his, completely bare and painted in moonlight_

He turns, chasing more of the scent that lingers on his sheets, without even realising it. His hand reaches across the empty space, resting on a sleep wrinkled bedspread.

_The press of a kiss against his hand._

_The soft sigh of pleasure._

_The glow in the dark, the warmth in the cold._

He dreams.

A woman. She shines with life in the strange place where he does and doesn’t exist.

And he can’t help but drift to her, watch over her as she sleeps, glowing golden in the cold blue.

But there’s something below, something wanting and waiting.

The clicks of claws against wooden floors echoes around his dream.

Even as he beds her he can hear them, tapping like a clock on a wall in an empty home.

But oh, she is soft and warm and he drinks her up with his lips and tongue and teeth and hands, and gods she feels good underneath his ministrations. She makes him feel good.

But he makes her sick, he takes too much, even when she’s willing to give he takes and takes like he can’t help it.

She’s above him, body painted in blues and golds as she takes his cock deep, rides him sweetly until they both drift away.

He remembers her face vividly as she comes undone, body arching sweetly underneath his as he takes everything she offers and then some, until she’s cold and dim below him, and they’re both lost to the waves.

_“Dante.”_

He wakes.

And he remembers.

===

The driveway is as he remembers it, demonic energy leeching the life out of the plants and atmosphere.

This fucker, he remembers, was a cocky shit the last time he was here.

And, Dante grudgingly thinks as he revs the stolen motorbike away from the destroyed gates, he was right to be.

A goddamn year.

A whole year taken from his life, even as long as it was.

Long enough that his place had been sold and for you to move in, and get entangled in his never ending shit show.

Goddamnit, he hoped he could fix this.

Passing the ass-ugly fountain he leans in to a turn the bike skidding until it touches the floor, flawlessly stepping off as it slides away it he rolls the sleeves of his red coat up. The singing of rebellion as he slices it through the air is music to his ears, and his grin covers up the fact that he’s pretty fucking pissed.

Wood splinters and the front door of the demon who calls himself Avarace Critchley falls apart with a satisfying crack.

“Sparda.” The voice calls from inside, human but at the same time not, but definitely self assured and amused.

Not for long, Dante thinks, as he steps through the wreckage of the door.

Inside the air is thick, sweet and sickly like warm syrup tinted with rot, the energy, raw and ruinous, drips from the walls and around paintings of souls locked away.

“Come to view my latest masterpiece?”

Still in human form Avarice looks quite pleased with himself, beady eyes glimmering in the dark he gestures up to the painting behind him, a large portrait of a landscape that Dante remembers.

The fight that had ensued there was drawn out, Avarice hiding in shadows and water until the world had pulled Dante’s mind apart enough for him to make a small misstep as Avarice surged up from the waters only he could enter, and struck Dante down with his own blade.

But the landscape of the painting isn’t empty.

There’s blood trailing behind you, a path up the painting to where you stand on the still waters, back to the viewer you shiver and stumble as you walk, making slow progress, walking endlessly.

“Not about to say I’ll let you live if you let her go, but I just might make it quick.” In the dark Avarice laughs as his human skin slides away in wet and messy piles, landing on the floor in piles of gore. Underneath he is chitinous, black and shining a true dark, his eyes are the same. Spindly arms, and legs too long to look proportionate to his body, bend as he leaps smoothly on to the banister. White fangs shine against his black body, and a long red tongue slides out of his mouth to lick at the drool that drips past a lipless mouth.

He chuckles the whole time, sound echoing through deep corridors, filling the house.

Rebellion is balanced in Dante’s hand, muscles loose and ready for quick reflex, he won’t be making the same mistakes twice, and this time there’s something extremely important on the line.

It happens quiet, though not quiet enough.

A clawed foot shifts behind him, and Dante turns and dodges the attack easily, a lesser demon, probably under the sway of Avarice. Regardless, it screeches at an inhuman pitch when Rebellion arcs upward and through its long limb, blackened and wet with the transformation from human to demon. Skin and mousy brown hair are still plastered over its body, Dante recognises the creature to be the one who had called itself Hall, the butler.

Avarice moves next, much faster and lighter on his feet than the demon in front of Dante. The swipe that goes through the air only millimetres away from where Dante had been is strong and swift, and it would definitely have caused some damage if it had connected.

Which is unusual.

Because Avarice is a lesser demon, defnintely not high enough on the chain to have the kind of power that thrums off of him in waves of metallic heat, laying heavy at the back of Dante’s tongue.

Tasting the same as the paintings.

Rebellion swings, this time catching the Avarice’s long claws.

Dante narrows his eyes as teeth gnash inches away from his nose, spittle foaming and spraying with each snap of the jaw.

“What makes you think you’ll fare any better this time than last, Son of Sparda? I’ve been feasting on you well, this last year.” The laugh bubbles up through a throat not made for laughing, and it clicks sickly.

“Yeah?” Ivory feels cool in his grip, the trigger squeezing beautifully and sending bullets through Hall as it skitters towards its master and Dante. “Dinner time’s over, Critchley.”

He pushes with Rebellion, sending Avarice tumbling back, though he lands easily, another laugh beginning in his throat. It dies quickly when Dante swings behind, Rebellion chiming as it slices through a painting of a ship being tossed in a storm.

“No!” He stumbles, scrambling on polished wood, panicking as there’s a feeling in the air like elastic snapping after being pulled much too taut. “Stop him!”

Dante can see it now, if he really Looks.

Sigils, invisible to the eye unless you look in a certain way, with certain intent, are splashed over all of the paintings. Confirming what he suspected, the gamble paying off and freeing the souls trapped inside as well as severing the power connection to Critchley.

Hall is slow, and pained, while Critchley lays panting on the floor, the shock of the loss of a ship’s worth of souls draining away power that was never his.

Still, the servant throws himself at Dante, who slides his feet fluidly, turning with precise movements to catch the demon mid-air, throwing it at a painting of a field of workers picking grapes under a blazing sun. Silver glints and elastic snaps as Rebellion slices through Hall and the painting in one movement.

The scream is practically in his ear as Dante turns a moment too late to block Critchley, though the swipes are wild and uncontrolled in his panic they still land.

“Huh, not bad,” he can feel blood tricking down his side from the blow, can taste and smell the metallic tang of his own blood, “My turn now.” 

His blows are clean and slicing smoothly through Avarice, and it’s a surprise he’s still standing, until Dante sees the green glow of energy around the wounds he’s made bringing twisted flesh back together, can feel the screams of pain from the paintings around him.

Including the one you’re in.

“I think it’s time to end this.” Ebony and Ivory shred through frames and canvas in seconds, bullets destroying the sigila and paintings, the screams of Avarice in tandem with that feeling of energy snapping in the air.

Avarice still somehow manages to stand, swaying and panting, but the air around him is empty compared to the swell of power Dante felt when he arrived.

“Half-breed bastard!” He launches forward on all fours, a desperate last attempt that’s clumsy and animalistic, a far cry from the Avarice Critchley that had tricked Dante a year ago. “I’ll rip you limb from limb!”

“Big words from such a little guy.” After all of the trouble of the last year it’s anti-climactic when, after he leaps towards Dante, Avarice Critchley is sliced in two at the waist, parts falling to the ground feet apart.

Guttural broken laughter bubbles from Avarice’s throat along with tar-like blood, “You won’t... Save her now... Spar-da.” Dante doesn’t even watch the light fade from his eyes, but he hears his head hit the floor, and his body turn to dust.

There are more important things to focus on.

There’s a smell of decay, and he sees the paintings are changing, the older ones first by the look of it. Paint is sloughing off of the canvas in thick and shining drops, as though all that held them together was Avarice’s magic, and Dante doubted he was wrong.

He doesn’t hesitate, he leaps over the ruined splinters of the bannister and lands in front of the painting that holds you.

They sky is falling, slowly, edges of the world melting and twisting, and you, in the centre of it all, walking on.

There is no hesitation as Dante lifts his hand to the painting.

He pushes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A day later than I intended! I got caught up in preparing to work from home, which I'm so glad I can do since 2 people I live with are vulnerable and have been told they can't leave the house for 12 weeks!
> 
> I hope you're all doing well and enjoyed a few minutes away from reality with this chapter. Remember to look after your physical and mental health in this time. If you need to talk I would be happy to, we have to look after each other and ourselves.
> 
> Oh, if you're looking for music to listen to, all of the songs in the notes at the start of each chapter were what I was listening to while writing. Big however though, they're really depressing and lonely.


End file.
